The Penman
by Margo Duncan
Summary: Scars occur when the world is made flesh. It is not what is taken from one that counts, but rather what one does with what remains. The sequel to Practically Perfect, Penned and Priced
1. Chapter 1

Dear Readers,

On the anniversary of the posting of "Practically Perfect: Penned and Priced," I return to you, offering its sequel. Much has changed since last we spoke though as some mentioned an interest in a sequel, I of course sought about providing as much. I hope that interest is still there, for this entire project has been for you.

On this occasion, I should like to thank any new or returning readers. You have given me so much to think about, not to mention so much kindness and encouragement. I dedicate this story to you in a vain attempt to show my appreciation.

I rush to post this before the anniversary passes, but I must quickly mention that this story will most likely not progress along quite as swiftly as "Penned and Priced." I have given it a good deal of thought over the near-year I have been formulating it, but I must make sure it seems as organized typed out as it does in my head. While I may be rather slow regarding my other Mary Poppins story, "Noblesse Oblige," I assure you that this story will get a resolution if I have anything to do with it, I just do not seek to rush things. (I will also note that I fully intend to finish "Noblesse Oblige" but have hit a bit of a snag. I entreat that interested readers please just trust me on that for right now ;)).

But, in any event, I truly hope this provides you with all you desired. I thank you once again for everything - it means so very much to me! It is so good to be back once again!

Always,

Margo

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor claim to own, the tale of _Mary Poppins_ in any of its incarnations. This is purely a bit of non-profit entertainment.

* * *

Of all the weapons man has devised with the intent of perforating his fellow being, the pen is the armament most capable of piercing the heart. Its very ink becomes the most deadly poison that may be injected into the blood. This does not necessarily mean that the penman is to be considered malevolent, for even he may not completely understand the dynamic power kept within his grasp - for the intents of even the most altruistic authors may go astray as a consequence of that mechanism which permits one to be accredited with the title of human being. But whatever the reason for such injuries may be, it is still likely that one would rather suffer the force of a sword or bullet than that of the written word, for there is no antidote to be found that can reverse the effects of a well-crafted missive.

Or so the young woman named Mary Poppins thought as she sat upon her disheveled bed, squeezing tight her refulgent eyes so that their light might penetrate inwardly, enabling the hole in her heart to be examined. Her loving Uncle Albert stationed himself resolutely at her side, awaiting the moment that he could be of some true help to her.

Luckily for him, it was not very long before the reservoir of tears within his niece depleted to expose a bed of chagrin. After doing her best to rub the stream of droplets from her face - the closest it would receive to a true washing that morning - she turned upon the man with the greatest composure she could muster.

Despite the courage she offered him, however, Uncle Albert could recognize how shattered the woman was in the way she asked, "Can you . . . read between the lines? I certainly cannot any longer, but I must know. Perhaps if I could attain some understanding, this might not hurt inside me so."

Uncle Albert took her hand in his. Her equanimity being so strained, Mary Poppins' skin took on the warmth of feverishness and even its very hue had turned from peach to a bright crimson. He could not help but wonder if perhaps her illness was returning, despite the fact that she had so lovingly been returned to health not a day before. In an attempt to prevent any further declination within his beloved Mary, Uncle Albert refocused on the note that rested upon his knee. Taking the ruffled piece of paper in his free hand, the man scrunched his brow in contemplation of it.

Mary Poppins' wounded heart foundered even lower within her as she observed the gaze in the man's framed eyes change suddenly from concentration to dejection.

"He is quite sincere, Mary, I assure you," Uncle Albert offered. "He has left not in spite of you, but because of you nonetheless."

Tears threatened to rain upon Mary Poppins' saturated features once again, but she stoically choked them back. Without altering his line of sight, her caretaker noticed the emotion.

"No, my dear. Do not be angry with him. His love for you was true, but some notion made his actions seem highly justified."

Several transitions occurred across Uncle Albert's face before he returned the paper to abeyance. His left hand now undetained, Uncle Albert ran it through his thinning hair while simultaneously clutching Mary's palm with the other.

"I can understand no more," he sympathized. "This entire situation is rather enigmatic, at best."

But Mary Poppins did not fault him. Still, her agitation caused her to bite her lower lip in such a fashion that it split to display the redness of her boiling blood. She tossed her manic brown tresses behind her to allow a better view of Uncle Albert before voicing her deepest concern.

"Is he still living, Uncle Albert?"

He shut his eyes tightly, unable to presently observe her face. "I wish I knew, my dear, but I am powerless to discover it with my present means." He took Mary into his arms before continuing. "At any rate, it appears as though he is gone."

She wrapped her arms ardently around his physique before drawing back, a determinedness spread upon her face that was not there before. "That much I intend to survey myself."

* * *

Rain from the heavens had already begun pouring upon Mary Poppins by the time she had given herself the appearance of having some semblance of order and followed Uncle Albert's directions to the place that served as Bert's lodgings. Perhaps _had served_ would have been the better description, though the intuitive woman could not find any particular sign of vacancy about the place. Strolling about the boundless row of craggy edifices that served as armored guards for the cobblestone lane, Mary Poppins had distinctly spotted the towering gray building with the external staircase, just as Uncle Albert had assured her that she would. Spiriting up two flights of steps, a glossy oaken door was indeed to be found with a sole window beside it for company. The pane's dress of bountiful curtains did not allow Mary Poppins a very explicit view, though from her inhibited glances, it was deduced that the fixtures still remained within. In vain, she clasped the tarnished brass doorknob with both hands, praying with vehemence that it should budge and reveal to her the man she loved, the one who would be as overjoyed at her presence as she certainly would be at his.

But, alas, the magical abilities of Mary Poppins had been revoked earlier as payment for the life that the chimney sweep she loved so dearly had returned to her. Not long after considering this thought did the vision of Bert within Mary's heart fade, revealing again that bottomless pit that the woman felt confident would remain forever more. Her crux feeling terribly heavy despite missing a piece, Mary Poppins returned to Kirkby Lane. Before doing so she closed her eyes, tightening her hold on the doorknob. For she knew that not so very long ago Bert had surely done likewise, and knowing that made the knob almost as comfortable as his hand in her palm would surely have been at that instant if the privelege could have been hers for but one more moment in time.

* * *

"I'm sorry for my behavior, Uncle Albert. Truly I am. It is just that I have never felt so - well, I suppose that is the problem. I feel nothing at all now," Mary Poppins confessed as she reclined upon the settee. The sitting room to any guest would have been the picture of warmth with the presence of both Uncle Albert and a blazing fire but no relief could be given to neither Mary's inner nor outer soddenness.

He continued to stroke her arm soothingly, knowing that no words he could form would be any true relief to his beautiful niece.

"It is a terrible thing, a wretched thing," Mary proclaimed, nibbling on her fingertips anxiously. "It would have been better that he let me die if I now have to return to a loveless life once again." She turned, instinctively seeking Uncle Albert's face. Even before their eyes met, however, Mary Poppins was already terribly ashamed of what she had said.

"No, Uncle Albert, forgive my complete arrogance. What a squanderer I would be if I truly wished my life away. Too many people have worked to secure it for me. I must continue on." She bent her weary neck forward and released a formidable sigh. In the maelstrom of events that had taken place not even Mary had stopped to notice how incredibly exhausted she felt. "If he only wasn't such a beautiful person, I might not make such a fool of myself."

The pair shared a smile that despite its weakness was far more than either expected to indulge in that day.

"Perhaps this is the best thing for you, Mary. Perhaps it was his intention all along. He's set you free, you know. Your life is yours to live now - you are free to do anything you choose now."

At this conclusion, Mary Poppins gazed longingly into the distance. "Except what I truly wanted to."

* * *

After an entire day of largely thinking of herself, Mary Poppins was left entirely unable to do so as evening approached. And so she turned her attention to discovering what had always been of the utmost importance to her, despite her unwillingness to admit it. No true friend of Bert's could allow him to vanish without exhausting all resources to find him.

Reduced to such humanness, Mary Poppins' own resources were rather limited. Thankfully, nothing could remove the unnatural amount of sensibility that she kept stored away within her head. Employing just this, the empowered woman braced herself against the wind and rain and trudged dutifully to the park, the most auspicious place she could think of.

Mary's judgement did not fail her. With eyes cast to the ground, expecting the narrow gray walkway to open up into the entrance she was so familiar with, a little brown and gray blur trajected into her path and forced her to stop.

"Andrew!" She exclaimed after she had focused on the creature for a moment. The little dog began to bark wildly. Despite the beastly pounding of the rain upon the ground around her, Mary Poppins was able to effectively translate the little dog's bark - for such things did not require magic, but rather a sharp ear and the ability to pay attention.

"No, I haven't the faintest idea where Bert has gone! It's been maddening me all day! Hasn't he shown up at the Banks' residence? Does he not teach the children?"

Andrew's yipping grew even more impassioned.

"And he never said a word about leaving? No one has seen him anywhere?"

Here the little canine shook his entire body to indicate the negative, sending water flying from his blanket and coat. Mary wiped away droplets from her own face as she parted from the dog.

It was her original intent to trudge home, utterly at a loss as to what to do next. The pasty sidewalk was disappearing rapidly has her boots clicked against the pavement. But suddenly a vibrant cloud exploded into Mary's line of sight on the ground, causing her to stop dead and kneel before it.

Removing her glove and running a hand over the particolored mess before her, Mary Poppins realized she was gazing upon the remains of Herbert Alfred's final chalk pictures. Thunder boomed around her, leaving the woman completely oblivious to the sound of her own crying. She had been too late to gaze upon the images. Had he depicted the reason for his departure, or portrayed the offense she had committed to cause him to leave? Had these been the clues to where he intended to go?

She felt as though she would never know for certain. Her heart insisted as much, and it had grown very difficult to ignore its repetition. Where he had transpired to, she gave up all hope of ever finding out. His identity as she had known him had passed away, she was sure - just as they must now have been dead to each other. This she unwillingly accepted as she watched the chalk forms sway and disappear. The constant torrent of water continued to carry away the brilliant hues from the pavement. They were whisked away just as swiftly from her sight as Bert himself had been, she mused. She observed them all but disappear, the incessant rush of water all around her unable to squelch the very burning in her heart. Down the concrete continued the ghastly parade of vibrance, until they sunk beneath it with the very water that carried them. There, they became part of the artist's past, joining the colors that so boldly defined his life, leaving the woman who so desperately sought the story it was their duty to keep alive. Underground, the stream ignorantly continued, painting the past with the present until the two shades ultimately blended into the same color, filling in their appropriate space in the tale as those who had best embodied them.

_

* * *

__There was a woman with a pair of dazzling green eyes, so vivid that Herbert Alfred would remember them throughout his entire life and use them to define the very color._

Those perturbing emerald orbs pierced his own desperately, until vexetaion caused his own glance to break free of them.

"You will be a very good boy for me, won't you, Herbert?" She inquired, bracing the edge of the seat as the carriage jostled over a bump. When the path became smooth once again she pressed her headdress back into position, still waiting for an answer.

"For you I will," he mumbled in time, never looking up at her. He threw a sidelong glance in her direction, catching the great ebony skirts of her dress in the corner of his eye. It was a beautiful dress. She was a beautiful woman, a well-bred one, even. But it did not suit her in Bert's eyes. She had never worn such things before, not before she remarried and found the means to. Bert was not fond of the change at all. "I still don't see whys I hafta go. I'm just as well off at 'ome."

She sighed, dragging a pale hand across her forehead before continuing. "You are not and you know it. Your father insists this a very good school, and we've gone through a great deal of trouble to get you here. He thinks this will be the best for you, and I must agree. This is a wonderful opportunity that we sh'll never get again. It is a very fine institution, Bert. They're going to offer you such a wonderful cirriculum - diverse, and the like. They even put on productions! Wouldn't you like to be in those, Bert?"

He finally looked up into her round face, framed in his same dark strands of hair. She had done a better job of convincing herself than him. "I s'pose," he replied nonetheless.

She squeezed his hand. "I'll be sure to come to every one."

Bert could see the beginnings of tears enter her eyes, though not until years later would he realize what in fact had brought them on.

That day marked the last time Bert ever saw her again. And even though he had never heard another word from her, the lessons she had taught him would stay with him always. She had forever impacted the way Herbert Alfred viewed the world, in all its varied colors.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Readers,

Can you believe I'm back? I do feel absolutely terrible that I have been so long away, but I promise that I never sought to abandon this story. So many things interfered with my writing, not least among them my realization that my planned plot was far from solidified or entertaining. Perhaps it's the New Year's Resolution bug that's got me, but I recently sorted this whole thing out, and if the interest is still left in this tale – please tell me! I will proceed at a very good pace if I still have any readers left – though certainly I do not deserve them.

Thank you very much to all of those who expressed interest in this sequel. The more I have come to understand it, the more faith I have put into this project – though after reading this chapter, you may feely entirely differently. I only hope that this satisfies you, even after so long a break! My heartfelt thanks to you all!

Always,

Margo

* * *

The staunch gentility of a copse of slender huon pines at Herbert Alfred's back preserved him from the gauche rays of the January sun as he gazed across the grammar school lawn. His azure eyes scanned the rolling expanse of spear grass and blackwood trees aglow with the balmy haze of summer before all the luminous vegetation bowed low to the presence of the massive brick campus. He observed the sweeping colonnade that comprised the lower level of the great school before running his eyes up the great clock tower that bisected it perpendicularly, dwarfing even the most massive hoop pines that dotted the landscape. All in all, Herbert Alfred concluded that he was very lucky, for even though the young boy had been disowned by everyone he had ever loved, fate somehow allowed him to assume a role in this magnificent place – several of them actually, over the six years he had resided there, many of them being theatrical and none of them being meager.

Even with the shade provided by the foliage, Bert was not impervious to the vaporous summer air. A gentle breeze emanating from somewhere beyond the Bass Strait – or so the young lad imagined – descended upon Melbourne and attempted to dry away the beads of sweat that had accumulated beneath Bert's shale-colored bangs. Even this blustering force proved inadequate to quell his discomfiture, and as he abandoned his leisurely position to wipe his brow he became aware of the figures of two girls approaching his resting place. From the stalwart pines that surrounded him emerged none other than the Pyne sisters.

"The Misses Pyne? Is it really you?" Bert, surprised by their appearance, could not help but ask.

He squinted as he watched the elder and fairer of the sisters descend gracefully before him, lithely tossing about her platinum waves and the pale blue skirts of her lawn dress as she settled comfortably at his side. Her gentle peal of sincere laughter was exhilarating and the darker thoughts that had loomed about Bert seemed to dissipate into the rolling sea breeze.

"Really, Bert," she insisted, "during the holiday break at a boy's grammar school, who else would you possibly expect to encounter but us two? And just because our father is the new headmaster, you don't have to withhold the use of our names."

Herbert Alfred's tanned complexion grew a bit rosy before it crinkled into a smile. "All right, Gwendolyn, Prudence, what brings you here?"

Prudence, who had plunked herself down between her two elder peers, beamed as she informed the boy, "Well, you said before that you never leave for the holidays, and of course we wanted to see you again." She coquettishly bounced her auburn curls against her palm.

Smiling, Gwendolyn laid a hand upon Prudence's back in an attempt to quiet her.

"Father wanted to be sure that all was in place for the return after break, when he will officially assume his role. And of course, we thought a trip to Melbourne would be lovely before we have to begin our own schooling again." Her eyes swept downward.

At the age of fourteen, she already exhibited a distinctly matronly touch in the presence of ten-year-old Prudence, but oddly enough in Herbert Alfred – two years her junior - she found an equal. In truth, the entire Church of England Grammar School was of the opinion that the lanky young man was wise beyond his years. She had accompanied her father to the place of his new occupation perhaps a dozen times, but with every visit she seemed to learn of some new facet of the boy's persona. Teachers and pupils alike buzzed with tales of Herbert Alfred's witticisms and tricks, but also of his quiet acts of kindness that counterpoised these and softened his image. He was prided for his excellent memory for facts and figures, and especially for lines of music and dialogue that made his performances on the grammar school stage renowned. By the age of twelve the power of his charm, dexterity, and voice had made Bert the most popular boy in the entire school, and Gwendolyn was only thankful that she had ever had the fortune to encounter him and experience his genius for herself, which she could not help but seek out on her subsequent visits to the school.

It was an inherent quality of Herbert Alfred's candor that he endeared himself to nearly everyone he met with, offering his friendship to all that crossed his path. To the Pyne sisters, however, he extended his character even further. While Bert's peers and superiors knew him only as the extroverted and determined young boy who dominated the grammar school, Gwendolyn and Prudence came to know the young child this boy had grown from – the only son of a widowed gentlewoman who had been forever replaced within her heart by a new husband of great prestige. Knowing his story, Gwendolyn could not help but admire the boy for triumphing over his circumstances rather than succumbing to his own unhappiness, but she did not doubt that his tremendous heart suffered from several deep fissures.

Thus it was quite reluctantly that she nudged Prudence and motioned to the satchel slung about her body before confronting Bert with its contents.

"Also, I wanted to show you this," Gwendolyn added, procuring a folded sheet of paper from the bag. "It's from one of father's papers, one that came all the way from England. I – I don't know if it will interest you, but it reminded me of the story you told, and well –"

"_I'm_ the one that found it, Bert," Prudence insisted, nestling even closer to him. Her eyes grew large, searching his face for approval as Gwendolyn surrendered the paper to his possession. "_I'm _the one that said what a pretty lady was in the picture. Then I showed it to Gwen. I said I thought she looked like you. Don't you think so? Is that your mother, Bert?"

Awestuck, Bert pored over the sheet in his hands. Staring back at him, without their unearthly pigment, were the chilling eyes of his mother who was pictured holding a newborn child. "Duke and Dutchess of Rutland welcome son, return to Belvoir Castle," he read from the headline. He perused the heading of the page and the articles that surrounded it. "The society column, eh?" He questioned with interest, but to Gwendolyn the descent of Bert's spirit was almost palpable, and her own heart sank with his.

"I'm so sorry, Bert. We shouldn't have," the elder sister conceded.

"No! Not at all," he rejoined, casting a look of sincere appreciation to both of them. He turned his attention to Prudence and with the best smile he could muster offered his gratitude. "Thank you for being so clever as to see the resemblance, Prudence. You can't help being such a bright girl," he insisted, giving her cheek a playful chuck with a brush of his knuckles that almost sent the poor little girl swooning.

"And thank you for showing it to me, Gwendolyn," he continued. The long look his resplendent eyes cast upon her communicated his feelings to her, and even without any additional words, Bert's meaning registered perfectly within the bonnie girl's heart. Regardless, the fissures Gwendolyn had originally perceived within Herbert Alfred's own crux must have come dangerously close to splitting open for at that moment he used what suavity he could muster to concoct a graceful exit.

"You ladies have the good fortune to be able to wear such comfortable dresses, but I assure you this heat is no fun in trousers and full sleeves."

Before he could fully rise to leave, the Pynes attempted to impede his retreat.

"Oh, but Bert," Gwen reasoned in her soft intonations. "You should enjoy being out while you can. You will have to see enough of the halls when classes resume."

His orbs twinkled mischievously. "Oh, but you see, I'm not going back in the halls."

"Where are you running off too, then?" Prudence insisted.

"The clock tower, of course. The very top chamber. Yeh kin get a beautiful view. 'ave you ever been?"

"Of course not!" Gwendolyn insisted. "Its forbidden, is it not?"

"Precisely why I should venture up there now, 'afore too many of the fellows come back and catch me at it. That spoils the fun of it. Would ya like to join me?"

For one brief moment, Gwendolyn remained flabbergasted. Before her waxen face quit its arrangement of consternation, however, she responded with a vehement, "Yes, I would!"

"Excellent! Allow me to lead the way!" The two began their swift trudge toward the campus before Gwendolyn realized her younger sister followed closely at her heels.

"No, Prudence, you best stay here. Father might come looking for us. Tell him I will be back shortly." The sharp look the Gwendolyn cast upon the younger girl told Prudence that her authority as the elder sibling was not to be questioned at that moment. Consequently, the brunette could only smolder with the white-hot fury that engulfed her as she watched Herbert and her sister retreat together, leaving her in the warm summer dust. Her stationary position lasted only momentarily, however, before the little girl formulated her own plan and trudged purposefully in the direction of the school.

* * *

"I s'pose it's silly of me, isn't it, Gwen? To be so bent out of shape about her?" Together, they stood at the window on the wall opposite the face of the great clock and observed the beauty of Melbourne. The experience of canvassing the landscape was made all the more surreal by the silence that engulfed the two. The only sound to be heard at that height, in the tiny stone room, was the rhythmic ticking that reverberated in such a way that made it difficult for Bert and Gwen to discern if the sound came from the clock without or their hearts within.

Gwendolyn tossed her yellow locks behind her. Turning to face her friend, she realized that his gaze long ago broke from the scenery and rested upon her. "Of course not, Bert," she asserted with mature earnestness. "She's your mother. And even after everything she's done, well, your heart is such a one that I know you will always love her."

His companion's smile strengthened him, but Herbert in his typical fashion would not easily accept such a generous compliment. "I really don't blame her. I know she loved me, right 'til the end. I saw it in her eyes, the day she left me here." Here Bert paused, fighting valiantly to keep his own eyes from calling forth a salient spate.

* * *

"Father, father!" Prudence, red from her anger and the run across the yard, up a winding set of stairs, and down the long corridor, planted her arms before her father on his desk as she came screeching to a halt.

Alexander Pyne shot upright in his seat at attention, his wide mustache scrunching in disapproval and surprise. He rolled his dark eyes upon the wild appearance of his younger daughter. "Good heavens, Prudence! Whatever is the matter?"

"It's Gwen!" She howled between gasps for breath. "She's gone to sneak up into the clock tower!"

Mr. Pyne threw aside his papers. "What arrant nonsense! That's no place for a young lady to be romping about. She's bound to kill herself on the ladders to access it. Whatever induced her to do such a thing?"

"Herbert Alfred!" She blurted. "He put her up to it!"

Immediately, the headmaster rose from his seat. "Wait until I return, Prudence."

This time, eager for her older sister to be separated from Bert, Prudence was all too happy to wait behind. What she could not understand, however, was the price that would need to be paid for her happiness to be achieved.

* * *

The two friends had seated themselves beneath the window ledge, though Bert could not remember just when their positions had changed. Overtaken by his emotions, he shared them with Gwendolyn whose silent strength could well endure their weight. "She had to remarry. She was a lady of breeding, and my father – though he loved her very much, and worked hard to provide for her – was never her equal. Just after she married again was when I got sent away. She tried to make us a family, but the Duke didn't want any part of it."

He paused for a moment, collecting himself. "And now they have their own family. And if I didn't think that nary a word or a visit in six years was a sure sign that I was no longer part of it, I know now. I've finally realized it. I s'pose I never really expected her to move on, to move away. I had no idea they had left Australia for England, but it's only logical. It's just an odd sort of feeling."

Gwendolyn bit her lower lip, which transformed from its pearly coral to blood red under the pressure she applied to it. "I still feel as if I never should have brought it to your attention. It was a foolish thing to do. Do you forgive me?"

"Aw, Gwen. There's no reason to. It's better I know. P'rhaps now I can forget about the whole thing, or at least try to. I'll just try harder to make something of myself, and maybe someday I will."

"But you have, Bert," Gwen insisted, inching closer to him. "You've done so well here, and so many admire you. Even your schoolmates that are older than you respect you. You have so much talent. If you can't recognize it, don't you realize everyone else does?"

He chuckled, trying to brush off her seriousness as he brushed at the back of his head. "I know at least Prudence does."

But Gwendolyn's own emotions had run too deep by then, and her seriousness could not be assuaged. "Don't you realize that I do?"

At that moment, Herbert Alfred took particular note of the creamy rose hue of the lips that had uttered the words that made his heart leap and knew he would never forget their beauty as long as he lived. But soon thereafter time became disjointed. He was conscious of observing Gwendolyn Pyne's angelic, careworn face. He could not recall the moments leading up to it, but his next memory was of those beautiful lips conflating with his own. In the next moment, Herbert Alfred was cognizant of thinking that for the first time in his life, he felt true acceptance, hope, and euphoria.

In the next moment, burned forever into his memory, a voice like that of an incensed beast pierced the serenity of the tower. "Herbert Alfred," it rang in his ears, "you are _expelled_!"

* * *

Prudence blithely sauntered around the grounds for the remaining hours of the afternoon, poking in the impressive chambers of the grammar school and expressing her awe at the great vaulted ceilings and ornate portraits that imbued the place with a regal heir. She amused herself by catching shards of her reflection in the polished mahogany and brass that seemed to cover every inch of the building. Her attention was taken by a particular sterling candelabra outside of her father's personal apartments when a raging sob from within stopped her in her tracks.

Poking her nose into the sitting room, Prudence was shocked to discover Gwendolyn, whom she had always known to be the pinnacle of composure, in a torrent of tears. Her golden locks clung to her face, dampened with this warm adhesive. The girl's skin alone was flushed several shades darker, and her limbs and skirts pointed like all of the different arrows of the compass as she moaned into the cushions of the chaise lounge.

Perceiving her young sister's entrance into the room, Gwendolyn raised her torso and shot Prudence a look so severe that she nearly ran backwards out of the chamber. "You wretched, wretched girl!" Screamed the sister who had never spoken an unkind word to her sibling. "You absolute witch! _How could you_?"

"You broke the rules! I had to!" Prudence chided weakly.

"And now Bert is being expelled! And what's worse, the whole truth has come out. Bert was disowned! He has nowhere to go!"

Prudence, stunned by the first revelation, grew overjoyed at the second. "Then father will have to let him stay!"

"_He's sold him!_" Gwendolyn shrieked, her voice so harsh that it sounded devilish, even to her own ears. With that proclamation, her strength failed her. She buried her head back among the cushions, replaying the horror of the day within her own mind and leaving Prudence to imagine the agony she had ignited on her own, though Gwendolyn knew Bert's fate was beyond imagination.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Readers,

Here I am again, though I wonder if anyone else is left to read this story in my tardiness! I will forever appreciate all of your support and encouragement, but this following chapter proved very difficult to write. I suppose this whole story can be considered historical fanfiction, because most of the people and events used did exist in the years of Bert's life. The following is no exception.

Without further ado, I hope you may find some pleasure in Bert's story! Let me know if I should continue!

Always,

Margo

* * *

If one could crawl behind Herbert Alfred's eyeballs and rummage through his vast memory, one might be surprised to find a void of sorts just after the wag's expulsion from the Melbourne Grammar School. Such a dark and sordid time it must have been that rightfully it exists now as only a gaping, black pit. But in close succession to what was a most unpleasant removal from the best home Herbert had ever known, there looms a vibrant memory, a great gold curtain.

Truly, the curtain just referred to was of a dank mahogany shade, but the hot radiance of the old stage's footlights lent it a much more dignified hue. The sagging wooden planks were likewise gold; the seats beyond were obscured by a glorious ball of light, and the head of the young woman standing directly in front of him was vibrantly gold by nature. In time, young Herbert would come to realize that these few examples of warmth, joy, and grandiosity were some of the only ones he would ever find during his short stint with The Fays Theatre, Tynemouth Aquarium, England, but standing upon that stage for the first time amidst all of their brilliance left him momentarily exasperated.

The pretty golden head bobbed up and down and from side to side as the body it was attached to danced around Herbert Alfred, running a measuring tape every which way.

"My goodness, you're a tall 'un! Five-foot-se'en. An' how old are you?"

"Twelve," he responded, his eyes cast down to mask his discomfort.

"Well, you've certainly the physique for it. Surely you have the stamina."

"But not the persona!" Rang a voice that made the boy cringe. He knew it too well already. Even the blithe woman fell back with a grimace, allowing a bulldog of a man to press his face into the boy's own, fragmenting the golden light with his indomitable shadow.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows to reveal bulging forearms covered with dark hair. His gruff appearance clashed violently with Herbert's tall, slender frame.

"It doesn't matter how well he can dance. Who's gonna pay money to see Hubert Allen, the Australian Ruffian, preen about?"

"Herbert Alfred, Arthur," his wife corrected.

"Same difference," he snapped without looking at her. "Nothing they can't see in the streets for free. But!"

Here, Alfred Fay stepped behind the curtain with the lad, and the variety of painted performers sharing the stage in rehersal ventured to move about again.

* * *

Flipping up the brass clasps on an old traveling trunk, he began to rummage through it, scattering grease paint and feathers all over. Backstage was much darker, and Herbert's apprehensions began to set in.

"Sit down!" Arthur barked, laying his hands on a round tin. Herbert obeyed for fear of his life. His temples began to ache as he inhaled the aroma of whatever was inside Mr. Fay's can; it grew worse when he began smearing the contents all over the boy's brown locks. Mr. Fay didn't stop until the can was nearly empty, running his meaty fingers around Herbert's ears and the nape of his neck. It was all Herbert could do to keep from trembling under his touch. Mr. Fay wiped the remaining cold substance across Herbert's eyebrows gruffly before applying a variety of white and gray powders to his eyes and cheeks.

Seemingly satisfied, he chuckled to himself before grabbing Herbert around the collar. "Now listen hear, pipsqueak. It ain't enough that I saved you from a terrible fate at school, but I had to pay a hefty price to do it. There's not a compassionate bone in my body; I dun it because I heard talk of how well you could sing and dance and act, and because I saw it with my own eyes. You _will_ earn all you cost me back - and more. You _will_ pull your weight around here. You _will_ keep out of trouble and mind your station and sweat blood to put us on the map. If you don't, I'll make you wish you were never born. Is that understood?"

"Yessir," Herbert gasped.

Alfred Fay released him brusquely, making the boy nearly fall to the floor.

"That's another thing. We're getting rid of that accent. From now on, this is how you talk -"

* * *

Nigh a half hour later, Mr. Fay emerged back onto the stage where the conjurers were still conjuring, the jugglers were still juggling, and a couple of actors worked out their pantomime, all to the sweet accompaniment of Mrs. Fay's exuberant piano playing.

"Tut tut, Phoebe!" Her husband called. Her nimble fingers banged against the keys purposefully and never jumped up again. "May I be allowed the honor of introducing our newest act?" The twinkle in Arthur's eye told his spouse that he had come up with something absolutely ingenious. It didn't lie.

In a moment, a lanky young man glissaded out from behind the curtain, and after whipping one leg around in a circle as he stood on the toes of the opposite foot, gracefully bowed to Mrs. Fay. Recovering from her shock, she burst into a most amused fit of laughter.

"Herbert Alfred?" She asked.

"No, madame, you are much mistaken," the debonair young man insisted, bending backward from the waist. His voice was much deeper than she had remembered. "I am - Orlov - ze Ballet Boy, ze most Distinguised Danseur from Russia. I come all the way from St. Petersburg for you, madame."

The other performers by now all stopped, in awe of the graceful and exotic boy. Phoebe, sent nearly in raptures by the transformation, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and rubbed at his hair. "What is this, Arthur? Shoe polish? And look at those wry eyebrows! I'm this close to you and I can barely recognize you!"

"Then I've done well," Mr. Fay insisted. "Yes, my dear. Who else can boast of having the premiere ballet prodigy of Russia in their troupe? He'll make us a mint." He stomped closer to the boy.

"You listen to me, Orlov," he insisted. "Mrs. Fay, in her day, was quite the ballerina. I am putting you under her tutelage. You will be in this theatre practicing, 12 hours a day, until you're satisfactory enough to join the show. I give you two weeks. If you can't live up to your name, you're out cold. Understood?"

Mrs. Fay snuck him a reassuring squeeze that helped give the young boy the courage to respond, "Why of course, Maestro! The great Orlov never disappoints, for love of country!"

Even Mr. Fay couldn't help but laugh and, after slapping his new acquisition on the back so hard that he nearly sent the breath from Herbert's lungs, he quit the theatre for the evening.

* * *

"Oh, Orlov!" Mrs. Fay cooed. After having the danseur around the theatre for the better part of four months, the name purled from her throat with ease.

Orlov finished a masterful series of brise before quitting the short, choppy steps to greet Mrs. Fay.

"Madame!" He kissed her hand before allowing his eyes to stray to the woman's side, where a scrawny girl adorned with black curls and tattered ballet shoes stood gazing at the floor. It conjured up a familiar image. "Who is this you bring to me?"

"Your partner for the new Living Marionette act. I've simply got to help Stanley and Lydia's act. I think Talking Waxworks was one of Arthur's worst ideas, but he won't budge on it! You know how he is once he gets an idea in his head. Would you mind spending the morning with her? Just work out the choreography and I'll be back in the afternoon."

Though he had only arrived at her theatre in January, Phoebe Fay had figured out by May that Herbert was far more reliable than the ordinary 12-year-old.

"Of course, Madame! Good morning!" His patroness gone, Orlov could only bow gallantly to the young miss that remained.

"Are you ready, then, mademoiselle, to rehearse? Is quite simple, really!"

She bent her neck forward before raising it again, gluing her dark eyes to his nimble form as he fluttered to the other end of the rehearsal space.

"To begin," he explained as he danced, "Efface! And then - fondu! I bend on the right leg, you on the left! And then! Brise! Cabriole! Dessous! I meet you center stage for fouettes! You grab my fingers for two finger turns! Then we glide into a penche and you melt into a fish dive!" He executed a great leap and stood just in front of her again. "Are you ready?" He asked.

She sunk to the floor in response. "No, I'm afraid I'm not," she insisted, massaging the crown of her head.

"What!" He called in mock exasperation. "'Ave you never danced with a partner of my caliber? In a theatre? Have you ever even performed ze sacred art of ballet?"

"Well, yes," she stuttered, with tears in her eyes. "I mean, no! I've never danced with a young Russian lord! I don't know all those fancy names. Mostly I just follow my partner."

"Oh!" Orlov sighed, as if he had made he most ridiculous mistake in the world in not recognizing the experiences of this little, ragged doll. "Well zhen, please to allow me."

Taking her by the shoulders, he positioned her in one corner of the room. Before running to the opposite he whispered, "Just do as I do!"

Turning his back to her, he crossed his legs and raised a hand. Orlov couldn't see, but his partner did likewise. As if pulled magnetically, they both pivoted at just the same time. They lowered their hands and - bending one leg each - sunk toward the grimy floor. Orlov sprang up and sooner than he could blink, the little girl was up, too. They both stretched out their arms and took small hops toward each other until the nymph's generous skirts brushed Orlov's tights. Taking a few hops away from each other, they each shot a leg into the air and sent the other to hit it when, like a pendulum, the first leg swung higher. They landed at the same precise moment and after a few schuffling steps, met in the center again, where they stood on the toes of one foot as they swung the other leg completely around their bodies. Orlov was surprised that the girl remembered to find his fingers and twirl about his supporting arms. He held her hand as she lifted her back foot as high into the air as she could. In a moment, Orlov held her motionless body over his head before lowering her softly to the ground. Her eyes opened as she felt the floor beneath her form.

"Well, yer quite the dancer, aintcha, miss?" Orlov mused in old Herbert's accents. Startled, the dark-eyed girl shot to a seated position.

He chuckled. "Didja think I was really Orlov, the Distinguished Danseur?"

"Why, yes!" She erupted, holding a hand to her rapid heart before laughing herself. "You had me so frightened!"

"Before I came here, I was simply Herbert Alfred, the never-do-well. Lovely to make your acquaintance."

She accepted his outstretched hand. "I'm Mavis Peppercorn. Well, I was. Now Mr. Fay calls me Sybil Sayer. You really had me fooled, you know. I thought you were a great Russian dance master."

"Me? Well, shucks. I've only been studying ballet since the Fays brought me over from Australia. That was about 5 months ago. I've been training 12 hours a day everyday since, and studying missus' books, besides. They ain't much good as I can't read Russian or French, but the pitshurs help."

"I've danced since I was a little girl. It's all I've known. Never had families or anything, just troupes. I'm 12 now."

"Sayme as me!" Herbert insisted. Sybil gasped.

"Oh, you seemed much, much older. That's part of why I was so afeered. I feel so silly now!"

"Don't you worry about me, Syb, I'll look out for ya." With that, he hoisted the girl to her feet and they danced the hours away, Orlov finally enjoying his role.

* * *

The Fays had never such success as that which the Living Marionettes, Orlov and Sybil Sayer, brought them. For two weeks, the pair performed sold-out shows at the theatre before their proprietors decided to take the show on the road. The next stop was the great Victoria Hall in Sunderland.

Orlov and his starry-eyed sweetheart performed the dance in silken parti-colored costumes - the best the Fays had ever provided. Covered in layers of face paint (in addition to a can of shoe polish for young Orlov), they walked on the stage with ropes attached to their costumes, until after a few jumbled steps they unhooked them - liberating themselves from dollhood with an impressive ballet. The pair knew the routine by heart by then, but Mr. Fay still insisted on their performing it three times the night before the show. That done, they huddled together in the dark wings while the rest of the acts took their turn under Mr. Fay's wrath.

"A beaut' of a theatre, ain't it, Syb?" Orlov asked the only one he would dare break his accent to. She followed his gaze beyond the curtain, into a labyrinth of cherry wood and red velvet, guarded overhead by great gilded cherubs.

"Oh, Bert, I don't know if I can do this!" She cried. He looked at her shivering body and clasped an arm around her bony frame. She was naturally a gaunt and pale girl and Bert wagered the intensity of their dancing and the atrocity of their living conditions only made her feel worse. Though they were the same age, she had become his little sister, and he always did his best to brighten her spirits.

"I know, Syb. I know you can do this. Yer a beautiful dancer and there'll be over a thousand people here tomorrow to watch you. Yer like an angel on that stage, ya know? The greatest pleasure of my life has been to dance with you. I love the idea that we can make people believe in magic. It almost makes what we go through worthwhile."

Her sinking eyes looked up into his face. "I'm cold," she whispered. Bert took her hands in his own in an attempt to warm them up.

"In that costume?" He tried to joke. "Blimey! Mine's rather like an oven. I thought yours was likewise. Just hang on, love. I have a feeling that you won't have to be doing this much longer. Someone's gonna see you and take you to a much better production or something. But yer too good for here."

She could only smile and, removing her hands from his, clasp them around his neck, burying her face in his chest. The moment was ruined, however, by Arthur Fay calling from the front row of seats, "All performers on stage!"

Quickly, the dancers sprung to their feet and fell in line with the others in front of the curtain.

"Now, listen up, crew!" The proprietor demanded. "You know the drill by now. We cater to children on this tour, and tomorrow is no different. We are expecting a full house at 1,100. We hold the prize raffle at intermission; you know how crazy it gets. Vivian will draw the raffle tickets and call out the winners. Maude will help distribute them from the stage. To prevent the mad rush to the front that usually occurs, I'm going to see that the door on the bottom of the left staircase to the gallery is bolted open, so there's only room for one child at a time to pass through.

"Arthur," Phoebe whispered while biting her fingernails, awaiting his reproach.

"What?" He shrieked at her. He despised being questioned in front of his performers.

"That doesn't exactly seem safe," she offered.

"Oh, come off it! The other door will stay closed! It's fine!" He snapped and then ignored her entirely.

"Now, anyway, yes. Maude and Vivian's fire-eating is just before intermission, so I'll have you two on stage. Well, I guess that's it. Turn in early tonight. The show's at 3. Report here at 11. That's all."

With that, everyone shuffled out of the theatre, expecting tomorrow to perform the show just as they always did.

* * *

The first act of the show had been flawless. As the fire-eating girls took the stage again to draw the children's raffle, Orlov flew to the wings to start applying the make-up for his final act performance. He had just about finished transforming his hair from brown to black when Sybil raced in, sending the curtain ruffling.

"I was wondering where you were," Orlov mused as he studied his reflection in the mirror.

"Bert, it's a stampede out there!" She gasped.

"Isn't it always?" He inquired, running his blackened forefinger over his eyebrows.

"No! Children are getting trampled. That ridiculous door is opened on the left. Everyone up in the gallery is running over those below to get through it. Everyone in the front is getting trampled. We've got to do something!"

She took him by the arm. Together, they rushed through the curtain.

They were met with the din of wailing children, of ladies and men in costumes and paint trying to be helpful, but making matters worse. The entire theatre was illuminated, but the rolling mass of children made the place seem dark. Bert realized just how horrible the situation was.

"What if we pulled them onto the stage?" Orlov, the fast-thinker, wondered. "Then someone can take them to the stage door to leave." The pair assisted the better part of fifty children before they came up panting, the children pounding harder than ever into the stage, trying to scramble atop to no avail."

"It'll never work. Someone's got to shut that door!" Arthur screamed, brandishing a cane towards the children who dared to infiltrate the safe-haven of the stage. In a moment, Bert and Sybil disappeared in the undulating waves of frantic children.

* * *

By 6-o'-clock that evening, the children who were going to leave Victoria Hall alive already had gone. By some miracle, someone had clambered up the right-wing staircase to the gallery and deterred about half of the audience from attempting to pass through the deadly door. Through nothing less than a divine miracle, Orlov himself had been able to rip the thing from its hinges in his fury. All but about 200 boys and girls had made it out; they were strewn all over the theatre.

Orlov finally managed to scramble backstage where the rest of the cast, in shock, had huddled, awaiting their unbelievable fate. He arrived to hear Alfred, seated on the floor, mutter, "They're already calling it a national disaster." Phoebe sat beside him, trying to soothe him. But the boy had no time for them.

"Has anyone seen Sybil?" They looked around as if a disembodied voice had asked the question, but ultimately shook their heads no. He ran back into the theatre.

It didn't take long to spot her in her colorful dress, laying prostrate in an aisleway.

"Oh, Syb!" Bert moaned, kneeling at her side. He took her hand and leant his hear against her chest. Still she breathed.

"My legs," she whispered. "I can't feel them."

"You'll be fine, Syb," he insisted, almost pleading. In no time, he lifted her tiny body over his head and hurried her back to the stage. There, he lowered her to the ground, just as he had in the final moments of innumerable performances.

"You were right," she mused as she lay aganst the varnished wood. Bert screwed up his eyes. "I'll never have to dance again after tonight. But now I wish I could! Oh, just one more time, Bert!" She insisted, placing her palm on his tear-stained cheek. "Just one more time with you." Her hand fell away.

As if that was his cue, the young boy lowered his forehead to the stage and wept bitterly. He never appeared or felt older than his age than he did in that moment.

* * *

It was past midnight when Phoebe knocked at Bert's door in the damp motel. She didn't wait for him to answer it.

"It's bad, bud," she insisted, taking a seat on his bed and rubbing his back. "But you knew that. Now it's worse. Arthur talked a fine line. He's not going to be prosecuted, but we've lost everything. We didn't have much to start, but we've got to cover the funeral expenses for those little children. 183 funerals. We're ruined, basically. All the performers will be scandalized forever because of today."

Bert nodded his head, but truly he held little interest in what the patroness was saying. She smiled.

"You'll be all right. It's easy for you. Just rub all the make-up off and drop the accent. You're Herbert Alfred again."

Again, he barely moved.

"Listen," she took his chin in her hand and gazed into his hurting blue eyes. "We have friends with a circus business. They need an acrobat. I've already told them I've got the best. Someone will come for you within the week."

"Where are they burying Sybil?" He responded.

"Here in Sunderland, tomorrow. We knew she had no family to claim her."

Bert lowered his head to the pillow. Phoebe kissed his head and left the room.

Forevermore Bert would be haunted by this golden time of life, by the golden lights, the golden stage, and the withered golden flowers he left on Mavis Peppercorn's grave that dreary morning in Sunderland.


	4. Chapter 4

Three dreary months passed, and still Mary Poppins received no word from Bert. In that span of time, without ever traveling more that five or six miles away from Uncle Albert's home, she had labored through peaks and valleys in her mind and in her emotions. First, there had been the breathless rush of denial. He would return within a few days, within a week. He would write a more elaborate letter after she had been given a fortnight to mull over his sphinx-like farewell. He could have been called away on business, on a family crisis. But she knew this couldn't be true; for as wholly as Bert was her world, she had been his. He knew it. And upon contemplating this, an ire began to rise within her, the way warm summer wind chases away the night's dew before scorching the earth. But even Mary, with her tendency to be cross, would try her hardest to cast off this emotion, knowing that it was as asphyxiating to the memory of her true, sweet love as an irregular breath caught in the throat. She glided into depression once again, so certain that whatever happened was her own fault. If only she had loved him more aggressively, kissed him more decisively, he might never have taken it in his head to leave.

And as these thoughts mired her, Uncle Albert did his best to keep her hands busy. He brought her down pasteboard and rubber cement from the little dusty office out of which he operated the Times, and it became his niece's duty to craft layouts in advance of the early morning printing. In this way, with her mind occupied by the sad recollections of one particular man, as she slumped on the parlor floor night after night, she became conscious of the shifting of dates based on the ever-changing headlines, and of a world being stirred up into a furious sandstorm, the threat of a great war blowing about, threatening to blind everyone. Serbia, Russia, Italy - the discontent shifted from many directions into seemingly one focal point: London.

"I think this is my problem, Uncle Albert," she said late one night as the two worked side by side to rush the latest breaking news.

"What, my dear?" He turned to look into her eyes, but she kept them affixed to the story in her fingers: the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

"I have lived so long in a world, in a dream, really. In my own head. At any rate, in some place that doesn't exist. There is a world teeming with life while it also writhes near death. And here I am. Of little more practical use to anyone than a coat hanger."

"How harshly you speak! Mary, you have been set apart for so very long; you have always known that your world is beyond the grasp of so many."

"But it isn't anymore. I have no powers. Not even that one that all mortals can access, if they are really lucky - love. What have I now? My existence is ensured, but not my identity. And I know it's so foolish of me. Look at these papers, these stories. So many people are here - people that just want to cling to the lives they have, and despite their best wishes, can't. Why must I feel so persecuted? I feel as if I have nothing, but how much more do I have than these people - dead and dying around us everyday!"

Uncle Albert shuffled the many papers in front of him. "This news is too harsh for you, in your delicate state, when you've not even given yourself the space to breathe fresh air for more than a few minutes a day. Try something else." He took away the articles that boomed of the impending war and placed in her hands the tiny squares of classified advertisements, which would be much less irritating to her withered humor.

"So what is it all the world wants?" she asked as she organized the papers into little rows. "Nurses, cooks, bottle washers, automobile operators, day help, music instructors, carpet restorers, pastry chefs, glassblowers, rag collectors, and card playing partners. I suppose we must all suffer some insecurities, then, if we need all of these to feel complete?"

"What do you need to feel complete, right now?" he questioned.

In spare moments, when her mind was not ringing with the remembrance of Bert's accents, or shivering warmly at the faint perception of his touch, the numbness left with his departure, while she was letting down her hair, or when she awoke suddenly in the night, she thought she knew the answer to this question. She had refrained from saying much, or progressing upon a course of action for herself, as she felt a strong desire to attend upon Bert's memory as a widow in mourning gown sits motionless in the chambers she shared with her husband. But with the world around her disintegrating so rapidly, she knew she would have to carry on with life, before it left her entirely, and now that she was sure Bert had no use for her.

"I think I must carry on with some occupation. I don't know what. I almost don't care. But I need to continue on, if for nothing else than for the memory of all those who wanted to and died trying."

"Does nothing at all appeal to you here?"

She remained silent, organizing the papers in front of her as if they were dominoes. Her attention was snagged by peculiar words in large text: "GOAT FELL" Accomplished, genteel, unattached lady sought as permanent companion. Must be willing to travel. Interviews to be held 4PM 77A Holby Street, Fourth Floor, Knightsbridge.

"What is a goat fell?"

"I believe," Uncle Albert considered, placing his forefinger upon the cleft of his chin, "that it is a town. A village, really, or actually an island. Off the coast of Scotland."

"And so why are they advertising in London?"

"I would imagine everything is scarce there - except maybe goats. And where else to secure an accomplished, genteel, unattached lady before the outbreak of war?"

"I think he knew, Uncle Albert," Mary said, responding to many questions in her own head, but not her uncle's.

"Who knew what?"

"Bert. He anticipated this war. He was preparing himself to leave for it. Why the need for such patriotism I can't understand. But I think he feared us become too close, only to have himself ripped away from me - I think he preferred to leave by choice, than by force."

"I have thought the very same for a long time."

She finished pasting her classified advertisements to the board, tidied up the floor, and kissed her uncle's shining forehead goodnight.

* * *

The next morning, Mary Poppins rose at four in the morning. In the matte gray light pouring through her window, the same window that Bert had entered to leave his final farewell note upon her pillow, his goodbye kiss upon her mouth, she laced her own corset, slipped into her best traveling dress, and combed her long brown hair through spiral strokes, until her roots ached with exhaustion. She completed her bun, donned a shawl and hat, and proceeded out, unnoticed. The milk man's carriage rattled down the cobblestone alley outside, his lantern bobbing in synch with the head of his plodding piebald mare. Aside from this, all was silence, her little corner of the city still rhythmically inhaling and exhaling, unphased in slumber.

She had decided in the night to revisit all of the places she and Bert had wandered, first connected by a chord of platonic admiration being tugged - from both ends - to become something more. And then, ever so briefly, to the places they had glided through in a golden haze of anticipation and intuition. She would drink in all of these places, in an attempt to freeze them forever in her memory, and perhaps the deep channels of emotion that coursed through her and through her sentimental memories. This would be her final indulgence. Stamped with their imprint forever, she would let their essence dissipate. It was too much, now, to think that Bert would return to her. There was too great a chance that he would die, fighting all manner of phantoms that posed even an abstract risk of destroying her own life in England. She would love him forever for it, even if she never would have asked him to sacrifice his life and his love for her. But in return she would have to move on, to continue to live, which she now understood was what he desired by the way he stole away from her, like mist rolling of the Thames.

But at the same time, she knew, her life could no longer be London. If she were to remain, she would be forever soaked in nostalgia, pining for a past that could not be resurrected, for a future too impossible to hope for. London, too, might soon enough be endangered by the many nations that sought to cut England's throat, and so to protect her life - if not entirely for her, than for the sake of Bert's memory, too - she would steal away to some remote place while the opportunity remained hers. Some distant place like Goat Fell.

She wandered for eleven hours, reliving every happiness that had resulted because of Herbert Alfred; her heart recorded each one meticulously, organized like picture postcards in a photo album, each one enticing not only because she was the recipient of it, but because she knew it had passed through the hands of her beloved before reaching her. She returned to the sight of every kiss, every delicate brushing of his tough knuckles over her peachy cheekbones. He had been the first man to touch her in those sincere and gallant ways, and though she knew he would also be the last, she did not mourn it.

* * *

When she rang the bell outside 77A Holby Street, a man in topcoat and tails escorted her wordlessly to the fourth floor. She was early, and still she expected a throng of women to be in queue the way they used to assemble when applying for nannying positions. The musty cherrywood halls were all empty. The footman - or so he seemed - rapped lightly upon a great door and then pushed it aside.

From behind a desk, an old man turned to reveal himself, moustachioed and frowning. "You are five minutes early," he quipped.

"The manner in which I was taught suggests that if one is on time, one is already late. If one is five minutes early, one is on time to proceed as scheduled."

His face softened just a bit. "Well put. What leads you here?"

"Many things, but namely the position you advertised in my uncle's paper." She pulled out her clip from the Times.

"Are you his secretary?"

"No. Among other things, his confidante and caretaker."

"And so why are you anxious to leave him?"

"He fears for my safety in the coming months and years. He would rather me take a new perspective."

"Smart man. But tell me about you." She proceeded to explain her many years as a nanny to all manner of children in many diverse places and circumstances.

"And so you fancy you have patience?"

Indeed.

"That will be important. But there are other considerations. Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

"No."

"Promised?"

"Sir, I beg your pardon, but what does that have to do with anything?" she realized she did not even know his name, nor did he know hers. It somehow seemed irrelevant given the secretive - though not unpleasant - tension that hung between them.

"You can imagine that many ladies would be happy to flee the uncertainties of England for the solitude of Goat Fell, but of course there is always a catch. This position is permanent in the most literal sense of the word. You could never return. We make that clear from the beginning. It would be too dangerous for you to do so" - he added as he watched her brows raise - "You would come to know too much."

"Simply by taking charge of a dependent?"

"Yes. This is no ordinary dependent. This is no child. This is the most irascible of men, a man once greatly ambitious, who was blighted - maimed - by a cruel fate. He is not for the easily bruised feelings. He is a bull thrashing around in the darkness; he does not mean to inflict harm, but he often cannot control it. The bitterness in him is too strong."

"And why should a genteel lady ever agree to such a position?"

He shifted. "Security, for one thing. Material comfort. Longevity of career. The master is only in his forties, hale and hearty if intensely miserable. He seeks nothing out of life. He would demand nothing untoward from you."

"Does he not have a valet? I don't believe it's customary - even in Scotland - for a gentleman to be attended by a lady."

The interviewer chuckled. "I can see you share some of his spirit, his bite, but your softness might save him, might make it easier for him to breathe. You are how old?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And so you will not need anyone's consent?"

"Not at all."

"Your salary shall be five thousand pounds a year."

"The caretaker's?"

"Yours."

"But you've seen no one else. How do you know I am most suitable?"

"I know what I know."

"I don't even know your name."

"Nor I yours, but I can read your posture and maybe your mind. You need him, as much as he needs you."

"Who?"

"Do you accept? I can only speak his name if you accept."

"I accept." They stood so close they almost touched.

"Sir Danvers Lightstone."


End file.
